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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298853">The Gate</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence/pseuds/HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence'>HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bullying, Discrimination, Domestic Violence, Family Drama, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Neglect, Northern England, Parent Death, Terminal Illness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:09:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,155</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence/pseuds/HiKidsDoYouLikeViolence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst part wasn't that Ellie was a replacement to Monty's father, but that she was an <i>improvement.</i></p><p>Yet, as much as Monty ached to hate her, he just couldn't.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Montel &amp; Ellie, Montel &amp; Montel's Father, Montel &amp; Montel's Mother (mentioned), Montel's Father/Ellie, Montel/Archie (mentioned), Original Characters - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Gate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Monty shivered as he turned onto his street late Friday afternoon. </p><p>He marched quickly, pointedly ignoring the dampness between his shoulders. The autumn air was biting cold and did the wetness no favours, Monty longing to be out of the wind.</p><p>He whittled the last of his cigarette down to its filter, dragging its cherry along the brick fencing that squared off each terraced house. Monty aimed the stub at a pot hole as he flicked it off into the road. He wasn’t bothered when it missed, too focused on getting his bare arms out the chill.</p><p>His stride only broke as he reached his house, hand clasped around the worn strap of his wet backpack.</p><p>Monty couldn’t believe he’d finally done it. The gate was back on its hinges.</p><p>He stared at it. It almost seemed a foreign thing, despite how Monty walked past it every day, abandoned in the soggy grass of their lawn. Most of the gate’s black paintwork had crumbled away, the metal peeking out underneath rusty and old. New hinges flashed an unnerving silver against it, screws from his dad’s abandoned shed turned tight.</p><p>Why now? </p><p>Not wanting to assume the best too quickly, Monty swallowed his tremble of hope and pushed past it. </p><p>Gravel crunched underfoot along the small path to the front door. The lights were on so Monty didn’t need his key, although nowadays he found it unlocked more often than not even if Dad had popped out.</p><p>He let himself in and Monty was greeted to the smells of tomato and garlic wafting through into the hallway. That was new.</p><p>Monty shut the door behind him. He was careful not to slam it, just in case. </p><p>He kept on his trainers, his socks a little damp from the rain that morning, soles overworn. He moved unseeingly past the boots and coat hook, the pictures on the walls, the side table piled with overdue bills and takeaway flyers.</p><p>He popped his head into the kitchen.</p><p>“Hi, son,” greeted Monty’s father. </p><p>Monty started. His first thoughts were that his words were pretty coherent for the time, although a can of lager was within his grasp. He was too busy with his phone to notice Monty’s bewilderment. Facebook most likely.</p><p>Monty’s shoulders loosened.</p><p>His father sucked up ash from a cigarette between his fingers, tapping it off into a nearby ashtray. “How was school?”</p><p>There was a beat of silence. </p><p>“Alright,” lied Monty, staying in the doorway. His eyes flashed over the clear countertops, the pots bubbling on the stove, the emptied rubbish bin in the corner. It wasn’t the kitchen he’d left that morning.</p><p>Monty hadn’t even known his dad was capable of making something that smelled so good.</p><p>His dad’s phone jingled and the man looked up. Seemed Monty had guessed wrong, Candy Crush. “Where’s your jacket?”</p><p>Monty blinked, surprised he’d even noticed. “Dunno,” he lied again. He knew exactly where it was. It was on the locker room roof, alongside his maths’ textbook and his pencil case. </p><p>His stomach rolled uneasy as he was scrutinised by his father. </p><p>“Well, better find it,” his dad replied in the end, returning to his rows of candies. “Gonna be a cold week, lad.”</p><p>Monty nodded non-committedly.</p><p>The pipes above the boiler rattled in the corner. Monty looked to the noise before he looked up to the ceiling, where the shower was. His eyebrows came together, confused.</p><p>“Oh,” said his dad, explaining, “that’ll just be Ellie. She’s staying the weekend.”</p><p>The missing jigsaw piece fell into place and Monty’s heart sank. He frowned, hurt, briefly overwhelmed by the feeling of his own stupidity.</p><p>“You don’t mind, do you, son?”</p><p>Monty didn’t understand why he asked when he knew he didn’t care for Monty’s answer. “No,” he said.</p><p>He retreated from the doorway and went upstairs.</p><p>Just as he reached the landing, the bathroom door groaned open and Ellie came bustling out.</p><p>“Oh, hiya, Monty.” She smiled politely.</p><p>Monty nodded once, averting his gaze.</p><p>They squeezed awkwardly past one another, one of Mum’s towels wrapped around Ellie’s little body. </p><p>“Making your dad pasta if you want some,” she told him just before she disappeared into his parent’s bedroom.</p><p>Monty scowled at the carpet, tossing his bag into his room. He unlooped his tie, unbuttoning his shirt on his way to use the toilet, having been ignoring his bladder since fourth period, too nervous to return to the school’s restrooms.</p><p>The bathroom was still muggy from Ellie’s shower. He locked the door and relieved himself hurriedly, turning to the sink. Instead of washing his hands he wiped at the condensation on the mirror with his sleeve.</p><p>His self looked back at him through the little beads of water on the reflective surface.</p><p>He stroked the patchy wisps of hair along his jaw. He wondered how it would grow in a few years, once he had finished sixth form. He smoothed down his overgrown hair. Mum would have had him at the barber’s by then. It was getting way too long.</p><p>Monty’s stomach growled. A part of him wanted to go downstairs and eat Ellie’s cooking, but it almost felt like a betrayal. Yet as much as the other side of himself chased after contempt for Ellie instead, he didn’t have it in him to hate anyone.</p><p>Monty sighed, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He abandoned his shirt and tie on the bath mat and returned to his bedroom. He emptied what was left in his bag onto the floor, kicking the door behind him and sinking down onto the edge of his bed.</p><p>Monty removed his phone from his back pocket, seeing a new notification had joined the top of all the others.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><b>Archie (40 MINS AGO)<br/>
</b> <em>Please just talk to me</em></p>
</blockquote><p>He chewed his lip. The message made him feel anxious, just like all the other messages Archie had been sending him since yesterday night made him feel. He almost opened it, but pussied out, turning off his phone and feeling like an arsehole.</p><p>Monty set it aside and picked up his school bag. He held the rucksack loosely in his hands, bringing it up to give it a sniff. It smelled like toilet water. He felt shame, tossing it across the room.</p><p>Monty flopped back onto his mattress, covering his face with his pillow.</p><p>He kept out of the way in his bedroom, waiting for them to leave the house so he’d have the living room to himself. They always went to the pub when Ellie stayed over. Monty knew his dad prefered <em> The Sandpiper </em> , but they’d probably go to <em> The Red Sails </em> since Ellie’s sister worked there.</p><p>He began to doze, tired. A few hours passed before Monty begrudgingly gave in to his hunger and pulled on a shirt.</p><p>Ellie’s laughter, originally filtered by the walls, came louder with each step through the hall, down the stairs.</p><p>“There he is!” cooed Ellie when Monty appeared at the kitchen doorway, fiddling with one of the cans of beer from the fridge. The table they sat at was littered with them, two empty plates stained with red.</p><p>Ellie’s grin stayed bright at Monty’s passive expression. Monty’s father kept his eyes on her, smitten and drunk.</p><p>Their suffocating chemistry made Monty feel nauseous. </p><p>“I made you a plate,” said Ellie, jumping up. </p><p>Monty wanted to tell her it was okay, that he could make a sandwich or something, but a filled plate was already being removed from the oven. Monty’s mouth watered. Ellie set the meal down by the empty chair, fetching some cutlery. She was becoming much too familiar with the layout of home for Monty’s comfort.</p><p>Monty felt awkward. He felt his dad’s eyes on him, trapped as he took a seat. Monty stabbed a few pieces of fusilli, eating them. It was the best thing he had tasted in months, tomato-y and tasty and warm.</p><p>“What do you think, Monty?” she asked, anticipative, “Is it okay?” </p><p>Monty cut through a meatball with his fork. “It’s good,” he agreed politely, although it was, in fact, very good. He glanced up.</p><p>Ellie smiled, visibly pleased. “That’s might as well be a five star review coming from you!” she teased.</p><p>Dad laughed, lifting his can in a half toast. “You’re right there, Elle.”</p><p>Monty’s eyes flitted away, trying to keep the frown from his face. It drove him to distress how warm her eyes were for him in those moments, how hopeful she was for them to all get along. He would have thought she would have given up by then, most did when they realised quiet was just the way Monty was, but Ellie was different. She had always been different.</p><p>“How was school then?” she continued prodding, taking another drink from her larger. She’d no doubt be just as intoxicated as Dad in a few hours.</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>“Oh, come on. You can do better than that. What classes did you have?”<br/>
Monty felt guilty he wished she wasn’t there. “...English. Maths. PE. IT-”</p><p>“ICT’s your favourite, right? Your dad was telling me you’re real good with computers and that.”</p><p>Monty shrugged a shoulder.</p><p>Ellie was undeterred. “And what about your friend? How’s he? The boy who was here last time.”</p><p>“Archie,” supplied Dad.</p><p>“That’s it! Archie. How’s he, then?” Ellie seemed genuinely interested.</p><p>Monty pushed around a piece of pasta. “He’s alright.”</p><p>Monty’s father gave a tut. “He’s a weird’un that’s for sure.”</p><p>Monty bristled.</p><p>“Mark,” scolded Ellie, playful, “don’t be saying that.”</p><p>“Why the hell not?” replied Dad, “You’ve met him.”</p><p>“Yeah I did,” argued Ellie, “and he’s sweet.”</p><p>“A damn fairy, is what he is.”</p><p>Monty felt upset but didn’t get involved.</p><p>“He’s just a sensitive boy,” explained Ellie.</p><p><em> A sensitive boy. </em> Mum used to say that about Monty, too. </p><p>“Don’t know why you spend your time with him. The big girl’s blouse,” Monty’s dad grumbled. He finished his current can, crushing it up to join the others.</p><p>Monty had lost his appetite, setting down his fork.</p><p>Ellie made an attempt at changing the subject. “Hey, Monty, did you see your dad fixed the gate? Don’t it look better?”</p><p>Monty gripped the edge of his chair, glaring down at the puddle of glistening sauce drowning everything on his plate. “Was fine before,” he said, sharp and tight.</p><p>Monty could feel his father’s look. Nobody said anything for a few moments.</p><p>Ellie cleared her throat. “Me and your dad are off to Sails,” she told Monty. “You wanna come?”</p><p>Monty shook his head, dismissive. He wished they’d both just fuck off already so he’d have the house to himself. He just wanted to be alone.</p><p>“Oh, come on, Monty,” slurred his father. “Come with us. I’ll buy you a pint.”</p><p>Monty felt a flash of frustration. His head snapped up. “You think Mum would’a wanted you to do that?”</p><p>The leniency in his father’s eyes extinguished and Ellie’s smiles cut off awkwardly.</p><p>Monty’s heart rate picked up, wide-eyed at his own boldness.</p><p>“She’s dead,” his dad said finally, cold. “It doesn’t matter what she’d want.”</p><p>“Like it mattered when she was alive?” The words broke free without Monty’s consent.</p><p>His father jumped to his feet. “Watch your mouth,” he growled, provoked. </p><p>“Mum wanted you to fix that gate since forever,” Monty physically couldn’t stop, “even when she was dying she was asking you to do it, yet you can do it for <em> her</em>-”</p><p>His father had Monty by the scruff of his collar before he could finish. “You after a hiding?”</p><p>Monty’s hands grasped his father’s grip on him. The fight left him immediately. “No,” he uttered, quick, afraid.</p><p>“Sure fucking looks like it.”</p><p>“I’m not, I’m not.” Monty was submissive.</p><p>The look in his father’s face in that moment pained Monty more than any beating ever could.</p><p>“Mark,” pleaded Ellie from behind them. “Mark, just leave it. Leave him. Come on, let’s just go. We’re gonna be late for the quiz.”</p><p>His father seemed to contemplate. In the end, he released him with a shove, and Monty was almost pushed from his chair.</p><p>Monty couldn’t muster the courage to even glance Ellie’s way as he fled, humiliated.</p><p>He forced himself not to leave too quickly, bottom lip trembling, relieved when his father didn’t chase after him.</p><p>His sobs were soft behind the temporary safety of the bedroom door, crawling under his duvet. There was so much more Monty had wanted to say but he swallowed it all back down, back to where it belonged in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>After his tears had long since run dry, Monty pushed away the throb of helplessness and thought of his Mum; her kind hand through his hair, her tuts as she’d patch up his childhood scraps and cuts, her withered, brave smile from the hospital bed.</p><p>It was going to be a long night.</p>
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